My Student Stole My Fiancé - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
You are reading My Student Stole My Fiancé, Chapter 9: Chapter 9. Read more chapters of My Student Stole My Fiancé.
The lips I knew so well spoke words of love, while those mesmerizing eyes—equally familiar—gazed at me with desperate longing.
"Claire Dawson," he said, voice thick with emotion, "thank you for always standing by me." A dramatic pause. "Now, in this moment, I have to ask... Claire Dawson, will you marry m—"
The crowd exploded. The orchestra raised their instruments. Every face before us shone with what looked like genuine excitement.
But I knew better. This was all part of his carefully staged performance—another pathetic attempt to manipulate me, to lull me into submission.
Silence.
Right on cue, the orchestra launched into Wagner's Wedding March.
My gaze dropped to Lennon. He'd already produced the velvet box, its diamond contents glittering painfully bright under the chandelier's harsh light. My eyes burned, but no tears came—I'd cried myself dry that night I discovered his endless lies.
"No."
Lennon's smile cracked. Several musicians froze mid-note, nearly dropping their instruments in shock.
I lifted my chin, taking in the gilded ballroom, and raised my voice: "I don't want to!"
Lennon lunged, but I yanked my hand away before contact. Two quick steps back put distance between us. He nearly toppled over before regaining his footing—his confusion twisting into something darker.
"Tell me, Lennon Sullivan," I said, loud enough for everyone, "how thrilling was it? Screwing my apprentice Mia behind my back?"
Gasps rippled through the room like wildfire.
"Claire, that's enough!" Lennon hissed through clenched teeth, jaw working as he scrambled for composure. Shadows deepened across his face as fury took hold.
I'd never seen him like this—always so controlled, so calculated. The real Lennon stood before me now.
The murmurs swelled, drowning out Lennon's weak protests. Then—movement. A dark figure barreled through the crowd straight toward me.
Stage lights blinded me. My body locked up as danger approached. Then—impact. Lennon's arms wrapped around me as we hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor.
Ears ringing. Mind foggy. The only reality—the warm blood soaking through Lennon's sleeve.
When my vision cleared, I tried to look up, but his palm covered my eyes. "Don't move," he ordered, voice steady. His familiar scent surrounded me.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Later, I'd learn Mia had come at me with a knife—her pride couldn't handle the public humiliation. Lennon took the worst of it: a deep gash to his side while I escaped with just a scratch on my arm.
Now he lay in his hospital bed, giving me that soft smile I used to love. "Mia's in police custody," he said. "You're safe now." A bitter chuckle. "Though I never expected such a... dramatic rejection."
His hand reached for mine. I turned away, letting it fall between us. The hurt in his eyes almost got to me—until he gestured to his bandages and whispered, "Can't you... just this once... give me another chance?"
"Claire Dawson," he said, voice thick with emotion, "thank you for always standing by me." A dramatic pause. "Now, in this moment, I have to ask... Claire Dawson, will you marry m—"
The crowd exploded. The orchestra raised their instruments. Every face before us shone with what looked like genuine excitement.
But I knew better. This was all part of his carefully staged performance—another pathetic attempt to manipulate me, to lull me into submission.
Silence.
Right on cue, the orchestra launched into Wagner's Wedding March.
My gaze dropped to Lennon. He'd already produced the velvet box, its diamond contents glittering painfully bright under the chandelier's harsh light. My eyes burned, but no tears came—I'd cried myself dry that night I discovered his endless lies.
"No."
Lennon's smile cracked. Several musicians froze mid-note, nearly dropping their instruments in shock.
I lifted my chin, taking in the gilded ballroom, and raised my voice: "I don't want to!"
Lennon lunged, but I yanked my hand away before contact. Two quick steps back put distance between us. He nearly toppled over before regaining his footing—his confusion twisting into something darker.
"Tell me, Lennon Sullivan," I said, loud enough for everyone, "how thrilling was it? Screwing my apprentice Mia behind my back?"
Gasps rippled through the room like wildfire.
"Claire, that's enough!" Lennon hissed through clenched teeth, jaw working as he scrambled for composure. Shadows deepened across his face as fury took hold.
I'd never seen him like this—always so controlled, so calculated. The real Lennon stood before me now.
The murmurs swelled, drowning out Lennon's weak protests. Then—movement. A dark figure barreled through the crowd straight toward me.
Stage lights blinded me. My body locked up as danger approached. Then—impact. Lennon's arms wrapped around me as we hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor.
Ears ringing. Mind foggy. The only reality—the warm blood soaking through Lennon's sleeve.
When my vision cleared, I tried to look up, but his palm covered my eyes. "Don't move," he ordered, voice steady. His familiar scent surrounded me.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Later, I'd learn Mia had come at me with a knife—her pride couldn't handle the public humiliation. Lennon took the worst of it: a deep gash to his side while I escaped with just a scratch on my arm.
Now he lay in his hospital bed, giving me that soft smile I used to love. "Mia's in police custody," he said. "You're safe now." A bitter chuckle. "Though I never expected such a... dramatic rejection."
His hand reached for mine. I turned away, letting it fall between us. The hurt in his eyes almost got to me—until he gestured to his bandages and whispered, "Can't you... just this once... give me another chance?"
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